Death's Shadow
by falconer54
Summary: When a mysterious sickness starts attacking London, Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes discover that old enemies can sometimes resurface. And amid it all, old comrades can reappear when we least expect it. Better than it sounds. Rated for mild swearing and death.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, finally, I can stop studying for today... oh, sorry. Frankly, I'm surprised I got this posted at all, with midterms (ugh) coming up!

DISCLAIMER: If I owned the characters, I would be dead.

I looked at the man who had just opened the door. He had slumped down onto the floor, and I quickly snapped to Holmes to help me get the man to the sitting room.

"I... was walking down… Baker Street… suddenly…. felt ill… remembered… you were a…doctor… and where ….you lived…" he gasped, as if the very effort of breathing was hard.

I noted with some puzzlement that his skin and the whites of his eyes were an ashen grey. His eyes were glassy. I stiffened. I had never, in all my years as a doctor, come across any disease that could turn the whites of the eyes grey. And as for his skin, he looked like he was already dead. He was running a high temperature.

"Holmes, get some cold water and some washcloths. Now," I ordered him, my voice hard as I focused on the sick man. Labored breathing. Grey skin and whites of the eyes. High fever.

I quickly applied the cold cloth to the man's skin as soon as Holmes returned. The man's skin and eyes seemed to turn greyer with every minute. The man started to cough.

Despite my best efforts, the fever was stubbornly refusing to break. As I watched, the man's breathing grew more and more labored, and now the whites of his eyes were a dark grey.

Suddenly the fever spiked even higher, so high I knew the man could not possibly live. Just as the fever reached 109 degrees, it rapidly dropped. Had it broken? No.

Suddenly chills replaced the fever, and the man began to cough up blood. In that exact instant, the whites of the man's eyes turned pitch black. I noticed that his eyes, a dark green, were now paling in color. In five minutes, the man's temperature was 95 degrees. Coughs racked his body, and dark red specks were visible. Five minutes later, it was 90 degrees. His eyes were a pale green. The man had gone from dying of a fever to dying of an extreme chill. I moved the man closer to the fire, trying to warm him up, but I knew deep down it was too late. The man's eyes were now a mixture of white and black, with red veins standing out with stark contrast to the white iris. The man's temperature was still dropping! I now got warm water on the cloths, and attempted to warm up the man. But it was out of my power, and at exactly one in the morning, the man breathed his last, labored, breath.

I lowered my head in defeat.

"….Watson?" Holmes asked tentatively. "What… what _was_ that?"

"I've never seen anything of the like!"

"Do you have any ideas?"

"No, the symptoms matched none I have ever encountered or read of," I replied, puzzled.

* * *

"Where are you going, Watson?" Holmes asked two days later..

"A couple other doctors and I have decided to meet to discuss the strange new illness. The one we saw two days ago," I added.

I called a cab; half an hour later I was talking with three of my fellow physicians: Dr. Bartholomew Grey, Dr. Harold Mason, and Dr. Edward Sound.

"I've had two cases, one two days ago and one yesterday. In both instances the whites of the eyes were grey, there was labored breathing, hemoptysis, a high fever, and upon death the whites of the eyes were black and the irises white," Sound commented.

"I have only had one case, a man who came to my flat two days ago. He had a high fever, but about an hour before his death it switched to severe chills. His body was 85 degrees when he died," I input.

"I have had much the same symptoms. I have had three cases, and in all three the symptoms were as you two described, Watson and Sound, and I must say, the eyes are the most disturbing part," Grey said.

The other three of us suppressed a collective shiver at the thought of those black, vacant, eyes.

"I have had one case; a small girl. Her temperature was 80 degrees when she died," Mason added.

I suddenly had an idea. "You recall how Dr. John Snow made a map of the cholera cases and found the Broad Street Pump as the source?" I asked.

There were murmured assents.

"What if we start with a map, it is better than no data and all, and it might help us identify the source."

The others nodded. We agreed to meet in four days, but sooner if any major developments came up.

* * *

The next morning, an irregular rushed in.

Wiggins opened the door, supporting an unconscious Luke. "Wiggins! What happened?" I asked, accepting Luke and laying him on the couch.

"Oi… Oi don't know, Doctor. 'e just collapsed, like, and I brought 'im 'ere," Wiggins said worriedly.

Luke's skin was an ashen gray, and he had a high fever. Bracing myself, I opened Luke's eyes. I drew in a sharp breath, and heard Holmes intake a sharp breath behind me. The whites of Luke's eyes were a pale grey.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. "Luke…"

His fever was high, and at my nod Holmes ran to get some wet, cold, cloths. I began working fanatically, pressing the cold cloths onto his skin.

I heard the unmistakable racking cough, and the boy's temperature began to reverse. This was worse than the other man, Luke was only a boy and more susceptible to illness.

Luke began to cough harder, his body temperature dropping rapidly. I moved him closer to the fire. Unfortunately, while this warmed him up some, it also served to worsen the cough because of the smoke. Scarlet drops began appearing with each cough.

"You can't die, Luke," I murmured as I worked. "You can't die."

With each cough, the lad's face scrunched up in pain, and the Irregular's temperature was still plummeting. To my horror, the whites of his eyes were a stark black, and his pale blue eyes were even paler.

The coughing stopped at noon. Fifteen minutes later, he breathed one last, labored, time, and I reverently closed his eyes for the last time.

Wiggins rushed through the door. "'ow is…. Oh, no…" he breathed, his gaze resting on his friend's body.

* * *

I stared in shock at the telegram. I had not heard from my orderly in so long… but here he was, in London.

DR WATSON WOULD YOU MIND IF I STAYED AT YOUR FLAT WHILE I AM IN LONDON STOP LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN STOP REGARDS DAVID MURRAY FINAL STOP.

I quickly sent a responding telegram in the affirmative, after asking Holmes if it would be all right.

"Doctor Watson!" David Murray greeted me warmly, a wide smile on his face. He clapped me on the shoulder, taking care that it was my uninjured one.

"It's wonderful to see you, Murray," I said amiably, returning his smile. Holmes stood in the doorway, looking awkward. "Murray, Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, David Murray," I introduced them.

"It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I have read about you in the _Strand_."

"A pleasure, Mr. Murray," my friend returned. "I must thank you," he added.

My orderly looked puzzled. "For what?"

"For Watson," Holmes said.

* * *

I awoke from my nightmare of the war, startled, and still not quite sure I was back in London. This was supported by the cry from the sitting room of: "Doctor! Look out!" Murray, I realized. I was not the only one who was plagued by Morpheus by the terrors of war.

I went downstairs. "Murray," I whispered, before realizing that my voice was the last thing he should hear if he was dreaming about the war. He shot up straight, a look of alarm on his face. He saw me, and quickly whispered: "Doctor Watson- the wounded- we need to… Oh," he said, realizing that we were thousands of miles away from Afghanistan. He looked embarrassed.

"Don't feel ashamed; I was having much the same dream," I said. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No- nobody underst- sorry, Doctor. Of course you understand… It was the _Ghazis… _this time; the whole damned army was made up of them. Then the sun turned into a giant _Jezail_ rifle. This time, you were wounded in the chest. As I opened your bag, trying to save you, I was hit in the back of the head by a bullet… then I woke up… I must admit, your face was not the face I was expecting to see," he added ruefully.

I winced in sympathy. "Seeing my face probably did not help, either. You must have assumed you were back in Afghanistan," I commented.

"Would… would you like to talk about your dream?" he asked tentatively.

"I… I was dreaming about the retreat…" I said. Suddenly I laughed, causing Murray to think me mad, judging by his expression. "I never thanked you properly for saving my life, did I?"

"There is no need-" he began, but I cut him off.

"You could have saved your own skin. There was nothing requiring you to risk your life to stay by my side. So thank you," I said, knowing any thanks I could give would be inadequate.

We continued talking, making up for the years. I told him about the strange new illness that was attacking London, and we spent the next while talking about what it could possibly be. That is how Holmes found us the following morning, deep in conversation.

My face paled at the frantic knocking at the door.

"Doctor Tyler!" The young doctor was pale, and his skin was almost grey. I froze. _Not another!_

Then Murray and I helped him onto the couch. Murray looked in my direction, his expression clearly asking if this was the mysterious disease. I nodded.

Dr. Tyler's clear blue eyes were paling, and I shook my head sadly. Murray and I worked together as of old, but to no avail. His eyes were almost black. The young doctor finally died.

* * *

"Murray, would you like to come to the meeting?" I asked him several days later.

"Will I be welcome there?" He answered with a question of his own.

"If the others do not welcome you, I will leave," I replied.

He nodded, and we both got into the hansom.

A short time later, we arrived at the meeting. "Murray, meet Dr. Bartholomew Grey, Dr. Harold Mason, and Dr. Edward Sound. Doctors, my orderly in the war, David Murray."

"I have had two more cases, one of Holmes' Irregulars-" here there were murmurs of sympathy, "and one Dr. Philip Tyler."

Sound froze.

"Philip Tyler?"

"Yes."

"He was my best friend…" He didn't speak a word for the remainder of the meeting. The meeting broke up early, none of us wanting to dwell any longer under the shadow of death.

* * *

When Holmes woke me up, I knew something was urgent.

"Can't your client wait?" I groaned, looking at the clock. "It's one in the bloody morning!"

Holmes looked grim. "It's not a client. It's Murray."

I was now fully awake.

"Murray? Murray, look at me!" I ordered him, shaking him by the shoulders. His eyes were glassy and beginning to turn grey.

"Get water and cool cloths," I told Holmes tersely, my heart dropping down to the floor. I turned to Murray. His breathing was harsh, and it pained me to listen.

Holmes returned with the cloths, and I set to work, my jaw set in rigid determination. Murray would not die. I would see to that. He had saved my life, and it was time to return the favor. But his fever was rising, and he had started to cough up blood.

"Murray! Don't die on me!" I pleaded with him, all the while trying to bring his temperature down. It would work. It just had to.

Scarlet drops rose up from his throat with each hacking cough. His face was contorted in pain. His fever was now up to 105. I shook my head, setting my jaw and gritting my teeth.

_He will be okay_, I repeated my silent mantra over and over. _He will be okay. _I didn't allow myself to even consider the alternative. I could not bring myself to look at his eyes. It was too hard. Suddenly his temperature began to drop. Had it broken? No, I was kidding myself. With each passing second, Murray's chances grew slimmer and slimmer.

Murray started to shiver, and I desperately tried everything I knew, but to no avail. He was dying. "Murray, listen to me. You can pull through…"

His body went still. "Murray? Murray, breathe, damn it! Breathe! That's an order- breathe! Now! Oh, God, Murray, don't die on me!"

"Watson…." Holmes began.

I ignored him, and started to shake Murray. "DAMN IT! You stubborn fool! You saved my life, why can't I save yours? You damned, stubborn, fool!" I punched the wall in anger, which left my hand throbbing, but I barely felt it over the pain in my heart.

_You're a total failure, John Watson! You call yourself a doctor? It would be better for everybody if you never practiced your art again, because look at what good it did. Your orderly's still dead. _The voice in my mind made me realize the full impact of what had just happened. Murray was dead, and I had been unable to save him. I went up to my room, not wanting to lose my composure any further in front of Holmes.

* * *

"Watson…. You should see this," Holmes said from the doorway.

I looked up. Holmes handed a slip of paper to me. On it was a note, scrawled in a bold, precise hand.

_That was a warning, Mr. Holmes. If you investigate- or if Dr. Watson continues to meet with the other doctors- then more than Dr. Watson's orderly will die. I will personally make it so that either your brother or Dr. Watson, or both, die. Consider yourself warned._

_C. S._

I stood up in anger, and started to pace. My orderly was dead, and they had called it a _warning?_ Whoever did this was a sick, twisted…. C.S. C.S. Culverton Smith.

Holmes saw the look in my eyes, and nodded. "Smith. With Scotland Yard's usual lack of competence, it was probably easy for him to escape, and- Watson?"

I had strolled to my revolver, and was now cleaning it.

"Smith is mine, Holmes," I spat. "Smith is mine."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

(Holmes' PoV)

Rarely had I seen Watson truly, vehemently, angry. But now he was positively shaking with rage. Watson was one of the most composed men I had ever met; and the difference between the Watson I knew and the Watson before me was immense.

Suddenly a knocking startled us from our thoughts. The door opened to reveal Inspector Lestrade. It had been raining, and my eyes, trained as they were, automatically noticed all the details: the mud splattered on his usually spotless uniform; the

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," he panted, obviously having run all the way here, not being able to find a cab because of the rain outside. "Culverton Smith has escaped!"

"We know that, Inspector," Watson said coldly, and whirled about and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

The small Inspector flinched, surprised by Watson's frostiness. He looked at me, his startled face plainly asking for an explanation.

"Because of your incompetence Watson's former orderly has died," I snapped. "The same orderly who saved his life after he was injured at Maiwand."

"I- I- but-" the official started to protest.

"And this disease has been rampant through London for the last week, and you just _now_ bother to tell us? Explain, Inspector."

"Smith just escaped three hours ago, Mr. Holmes," he said calmly.

"Then explain why a young doctor, one of my Irregulars, Watson's orderly, and an unknown man- and those are just the ones that came _here_- are now dead," I snapped. "Because I doubt even Scotland Yard would be inept enough to allow Smith to have a associate," I continued, my voice dripping with disparaging sarcasm.

"You think he-"

"It is the only possible solution."

"But Mr. Holmes- he was in solitary confinement. He wasn't allowed to see anyone!" the Inspector argued.

"Then the associate must be one of your own men," I said, gathering my coat.

"Mr. Holmes, with all due respect, this is now a police matter, if what you say is true."

"I will come, Inspector. This has gone too far," came a voice from the doorway.

"Doctor, Mr. Holmes-"

"We are coming Inspector- and I would like to have a word with this traitor of yours," Watson said in a warning tone, his voice having a hard quality that a week ago I would not have thought him capable of. I noticed him pocketing his revolver.

* * *

(WATSON"S PoV)

My anger, my coldness, was frightening even myself. My fists were clenched and my face was contorted into a snarl as I got into the hansom. What frightened me even more was that I could not control it. As a soldier, I had long ago learned to control my anger, my fear, my emotions, so that they would not control me. But now all the self-taught lessons were for naught. My wife and my brother were dead. In neither instance had I lost control.

But now I was clearly and plainly _not_ in control. I did not know why; perhaps it was the fact that his death was caused not by fate, but by a person I could get my hands on.

After Maiwand, while I sometimes wished that I had not been injured, I was glad it was myself instead of another. And in the end, it had turned out for the better. It had led me to go back to London and take up lodgings with Sherlock Holmes.

However, now I was barely holding it together.

I stepped out of the cab, clenching my revolver (I did have presence enough of mind to make sure the safety was on) in my hand. I pretended not to notice the glances Lestrade was shooting at me. He was looking at me like a man would look at a chained tiger: with trepidation, and a bit of fear. He knew, and I knew, that I was liable to snap in my current state.

The inspector suddenly coughed violently. My irritation was pushed aside- my Oath compelling me to help the small Yarder. My irritation with him was completely forgotten when I saw the whites eyes beginning to turn grey. It was so imperceptible that for a second I thought it was a trick of the light, but then he turned towards me and knew I was not mistaken.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

**A/N: I have no excuse for being this late to update, except writer's block and…. That's about it. Sorry for the delay. **

_**To my reviewers: **_

**Aragonite- you're right. This is going to be brutal, and I offer no apologies. **

**Book girl fan- Don't worry- I don't plan on the last straw breaking. Although I am planning for it to come very close.**

**James Birdsong- thanks**

**SheWhoScrawls- Thanks for reading and reviewing, I tried to make it suspenseful and full of tension: glad to know it worked! **

**All: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Reviews make my day! :D**

* * *

(Lestrade's PoV)

I noticed the doctor was staring at me intently, and I frowned, puzzled. "Doctor… why are you staring at me?" I inquired.

The doctor looked away. "Your eyes," he whispered.

"What about my eyes?" I demanded.

He paused, still averting his gaze. "…Doctor?"

He looked at me directly. "They're grey."

For a second I was still, then I grasped his meaning. I was going to die. I had seen what the illness did to a person- I didn't want that to happen to me.

"I'm going to die, aren't I, doctor?" I asked, willing my voice to be strong. I was feeling anything but strong.

"Don't say that," he snapped, too quickly. I suddenly was coughing violently again. My throat felt like it was on fire. I fought back a moan, instead burying my head in my hands. Then everything faded to blackness.

* * *

(Watson's PoV)

The cab neared Scotland Yard. "Holmes, I'm going to stay in here and take Lestrade back to Baker Street."

"Why?" he asked.

"I have more of my supplies at the flat. Holmes, you can fight this by finding Smith and getting the cure from him. I can fight it by attempting to stop it in its tracks. _No other man is going to die under my watch._"

Holmes nodded and got out of the cab. "Back to Baker Street!" I ordered. If the cabbie was confused he didn't let on. The cab turned around.

Meanwhile, I got my thermometer out of my bag. Supporting the unconscious Inspector with one hand, I placed the thermometer in his mouth with the other. 101. This was not good. But I was determined. I had already lost Murray. I wouldn't- _couldn't_- lose another friend.

* * *

(Holmes' PoV)

I would never admit it, but I was worried for the small Inspector. However, there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing but find Smith.

Gregson looked up as I stepped into the building. "Where's Lestrade?"

I paused. "He's ill. Watson is taking him back to Baker Street," I explained bluntly.

Gregson's jaw dropped. He quickly closed it. "Mr. Holmes, you surely don't mean that…"

"I do. However, there is nothing we can do about it. What we can do is find the mole."

"What mole, Mr. Holmes?" asked the Inspector icily.

"Smith escaped. Lestrade told me he was in solitary confinement. Therefore, one of your men must be working for him.'

"Come with me, Mr. Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four  
A/N - this chapter is dedicated to the victims of the explosions at the Boston Marathon.

* * *

Watson pov  
I supported Lestrade up the stairs. The ascent took longer than I would have liked, because Lestrade, although small, was essentially dead weight. When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, she seemed surprised to see the Inspector.  
Her eyes opened wide, and she gasped. "He isn't..."  
"I would like to say he's fine, but he's...ill."  
, bless her, went to get cloths and cool water.  
I took Lestrade's temperature again. In the short time since the ride to Baker Street, his temperature had risen by half of a degree. Considering his temperature was already 101, I was worried: at this rate it would be only hours before his temperature would begin to drop. And then he would... No. I forbid myself to think that, as if it would make it not happen. But I knew I was deceiving myself.  
Suddenly the door opened to reveal a breathless Inspector Hopkins. He looked at me, then at Lestrade, then back at me again, looking at me as if to ask if he would live.  
For a moment I debated whether to comfort the man, but then decided on telling the truth.  
"I will do my best, Inspector. But I cannot promise anything."

* * *

Holmes pov  
"Who were the different guards outside Smith's cell?" I asked Gregson.  
"Constable Walter Wesson, Constable Jack Andrews, and Constable Peter Lockburne, Mr. Holmes. The past tense being the operative word in the case of Constable Lockburne."  
I started. "He's dead?"  
"The same illness we have become all too acquainted with in the past week," he confirmed.  
"When did he get sick?"  
"About the same time Smith escaped, Mr. Holmes," he answered, confirming my suspicions.  
"Then he is - or rather was - the mole."  
"But if he's dead, then we lost any opportunity to question him. Which means that we are back at square one."

* * *

A/N for a while i was going to make Wesson the mole, but then I realized what his name would sound like alongside Smith's... Sorry for the brevity of this chapter. and no, i am not planning on killing Lestrade.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

A/N: Thanks to every reviewer, you keep me motivated! J

HOLMES POV

"Is it possible that I could see Constable Lockburne's house? I may find something that will tell us where Smith is."

"Mr. Holmes, you will need a warrant to-"

"Something that will tell us the cure. Inspector, in the time it takes for us to find the warrant, Lestrade may _die!"_

The inspector flinched. "I'll call a cab."

* * *

WATSON POV

I was growing more worried for the rat-faced official by the minute. He was shivering now, and I put the thermometer in his mouth, hoping the shivering was from the fever and not from a drop in temperature. His temperature was still high, but there was a while to go before….

I shook my head, telling myself to focus. Hopkins had a worried look on his face, and I surpressed a wave of anger at Smith. He would pay. Holmes would see to that. My place was here.

* * *

HOLMES POV

"Mr. Holmes, look at this," Inspector Gregson called. I walked over, accepting the journal from his hand.

_Febuary 19__th__, 1895_

_Smith said today that he would tell me how to make the cure for the disease that struck my little girl if I would help him escape. I agreed, of course. I would do anything for Sarah. The cure for the disease that turns the whites of the eyes grey is as follows… ….I have hidden a flask of it in the dresser. The key is under the bed._

I ran under the bed, grabbed the key, and opened the dresser drawer. Then I found a small flask of a clear liquid, simply labeled "cure." Taking it, I raced out of the house and called a cab.

"221b Baker Street!"

* * *

WATSON POV

Hopkins opened the door to find Holmes clutching a small glass vial.

"You found the cure?"

"Just this one flask."

I accepted the flask and held in my breath as I administered it, hoping it would work.

"Why isn't anything happening?" Hopkins fretted.

"Give it time, Inspector," I said, still looking at Lestrade.

Fifteen minutes later, his skin was beginning to regain a healthy tone, and his breathing had leveled out considerably. Five minutes after that, he opened his eyes. They were normal. There was a collective sigh of relief.

Two hours after that, an adamant Inspector Lestrade was demanding to return to Scotland Yard.

"No. You still need to recover," I said firmly. He muttered something about "doctors" and "arrests." I raised an eyebrow.

"I'm perfectly fine, Doctor," he growled, trying to stand up. He promptly collapsed back on the couch.

"No, you are not. You are staying here until you are at least able to stand, Inspector."

* * *

Lestrade POV

I wondered blankly why I was still alive.

"Did you find the mole? Did you find Smith? Did you get a cure?" I asked, wincing as my throat hurt.

"Partly, no, and yes. Which is why you're alive."

"Who is the mole?"

"Constable Lockburne. He's dead."


End file.
